Motherís Day

An empty egg, found upon the forest floor.
From one of the many Robinís nests, no doubt. Tossed out after the emergence of the chick, one hopes, though predation is just as likely. Was that the hole where the baby first broke through at birth, or where some rapacious Jay or Grackle broke in to consume it? Motherhood is not without its risks, but every empty egg must fill a heart, and she would lose her own life to save her offspring.
We need ask of ourselves no more than what our Mother has already given.
And still would give again.

Again and again.
Generative of generations, Motherhood is the original repetition, the chorus of the song of Life.
In Spring, Hers is the only aim, no matter that a foolish male gamete may so suppose as to proclaim dominion over land and labors. His mark is but affixed to his subservience. His space; Her place to choose. She may grace him or be gone.
And yet she ever makes the choice and takes the chance, and those of us who have been born are glad.

The Robins are already hatching. They will go on to a second brood; even a third. The egg shards of the past do not concern them. For us, itís different. We cannot wander far from the womb without a backward, longing look. Itís not so much return we seek, (for that weíll have to hope ahead,) but the means to repay the debt of birth. This we can hardly do, except to live our lives with Her approval.
Accept Her guidance.
Wonder at Her surprises.
Surely Mother is the wisest.
Or only such a fool
as made a place here in the World
for You. [link]